


Didn't Dad Ever Tell You It Isn't Nice to Play With Your Food?

by leonidaslion



Series: Don't Talk To Strangers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dark Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean pays a visit on Bobby, but he hasn't really been himself lately ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Didn't Dad Ever Tell You It Isn't Nice to Play With Your Food?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vichan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vichan/gifts).



> The overtones will eventually turn into definite slash, so consider this your fair warning.

Bobby’s smile was welcoming when he opened the door, but Dean could hear the man’s heart quicken. He could smell fear: sharp and sweet like the tang of apples. Ignoring the pleasant ache in his gums, Dean grinned back.

“Hey, Bobby. I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop in.”

“Well, sure,” Bobby said easily, and he stepped back from the door to let Dean inside.

Dean’s muscles were relaxed as he strolled through the house, but Bobby’s back was corded and tense. When the man turned his head a little to see if Dean was following him, Dean saw his Adams apple twitch. Heard Bobby’s pulse trip over itself for a few beats and adjusted his gaze up from tempting flesh to meet the man’s eyes.

Bobby cleared his throat and tugged his cap down more firmly on his head. “Take a seat,” he suggested, gesturing to the table.

“Thanks. It’s been a long drive, though. Think I’ll stretch my legs a bit.” Not that sitting would slow Dean down any when the time came. It was just force of habit: you didn’t drop your guard in the middle of a hunt.

Bobby turned around sharply, as though proving something—that he wasn’t scared of Dean, maybe?—and went over to the fridge, pulling it open and leaning in. “Want a beer?” he called over his shoulder.

Dean was tempted to make that bad Bela Lugosi joke, but he was enjoying this cat and mouse thing they had going and he wasn’t going to spoil it yet. It’d be over soon enough. So he just shrugged and said, “Like I’d turn down a free drink.”

Bobby’s laugh was hollow. “Same old Dean.”

 _Not quite_ , Dean thought, _and we both know it, don’t we?_ He leaned against one wall and watched as Bobby used his bottle opener on the two bottles he’d brought out. Heard one snap open fresh while the other cap just tumbled off, having been opened hours ago in preparation for this little visit. Bobby was sly, Dean had to give him that. Too bad for him that Dean knew all his tricks.

Dean’s smile was wide and easy as he took the bottle from Bobby, showing off teeth that were normal and white. Bobby’s face flinched a little, showing uncertainty beneath all of those nerves. Man was probably wondering if Sam had gotten it right.

Dean had looked at himself in the mirror after, and he knew that he didn’t look all that different now. Not if he was concentrating and kept his eyes out of direct light. Maybe his skin was a little too pale, but then again he’d always been fair. Burned so easily in the sun.

Yeah, not much had changed.

“Cheers,” Dean toasted, and Bobby hastily lifted his own bottle to clink rims with the one he’d handed to Dean. He stared as Dean put the rim of the bottle to his lips. Started to relax as Dean tilted it back.

Dean moved before anything in the bottle could touch his lips and three seconds later, there were two bottles smashed on the floor. There was the smell of blood and beer in the room, making Dean’s mouth water, and there was Bobby pressed up against the wall with Dean at his back. _Showtime._

“D-Dean—” Bobby stammered.

Dean shifted his grip so that he was holding both of the man’s hands with one of his own and used his left to slam Bobby’s head against the wall, knocking his cap off. “Shut up!”

Bobby groaned and Dean edged closer, letting his mouth just brush against the man’s neck. “Dead man’s blood, Bobby?” he growled. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“I wasn’t—”

“What? You weren’t going to cut my head off with a machete?” Dean couldn’t resist snaking his tongue out, getting a taste of sweat and skin. He felt fangs force their way free from his gums as the hunger inside of him swelled. “Gonna save that for Sammy, were you?”

“Dean, listen,” Bobby insisted. “You’re sick, but we can help you. We can—”

Dean slammed the man’s face against the wall again and this time there was a sudden swirl of copper on the air. Bobby was bleeding from somewhere—nose or mouth, most likely, although that last blow might have opened a gash on his forehead. Dean licked his lips. So fucking tempting. But not yet. He wasn’t done with Bobby yet.

Tightening his grip on the man’s wrists, he demanded, “You think I don’t know there’s no cure for vampirism?”

“Not a cure, but something that can help with the craving: with the bloodlust.” Bobby sounded a little stunned, but he was gamely plunging on. Good for him. Made things more interesting.

“What makes you think I want help?” Dean hissed. He grazed Bobby’s skin with one fang—couldn’t resist. Licked at the bead of blood that immediately sprang up and shuddered at the heady rush of fear radiating off of the man.

“Let him go, Dean.” A cold, hard voice from the door.

Dean spun without hesitation, taking Bobby with him and holding the man against his chest like a shield, one hand wrapped around his neck. He eyed the tall figure standing in the doorway around Bobby’s shoulder, taking note of the crossbow aimed at him. Of the steady finger pressed against its trigger.

“Sammy,” he said. “We didn’t expect you so soon, did we, Bobby?”

“I made good time. Now drop him, Dean. I mean it.”

“Or what?” Dean grinned, displaying a mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth.

“Or I’ll shoot you.”

Sam would shoot him anyway: had been trying to poison Dean with dead man’s blood as soon as he’d figured out what had happened. Dean snorted. “I don’t think so. You can’t aim that thing worth shit. I should know: I’m the one who had to explain to Dad why you kept missing all the targets. You pull that trigger and you’ll hit Bobby here instead.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Sam said shortly. His eyes on Dean didn’t waver, and his voice was calm. But he smelled like desperation. One of Dean’s favorite scents, and on Sam … on Sam it was a fucking aphrodisiac.

“Sure, in all your spare time. Looking a little haggard there, Sammy. Little paunchy around the eyes. You been sleeping okay?”

Sam swallowed thickly. “Dean, just let Bobby go. You don’t want to hurt him.”

“You know what? I kinda do. I kinda want to sink my teeth into his throat and bleed him out all over the floor. How long do you think it’d take for him to die, Sammy?”

“Damn it, Dean!”

“I’m gonna guess two minutes. One if I go for the jugular.”

“Just shoot him,” Bobby gasped.

Dean tightened his grip and was rewarded with a pained gurgle. “Sure, Sammy. Just shoot me. Go ahead.”

But Sam grimaced. He wasn’t going to risk it, of course. Pathetic and predictable. “If you kill him, you lose your shield.”

“True,” Dean mused. “Guess we’ve got ourselves a little Mexican standoff.”

“What do you propose we do about it?” Sam asked, keeping his voice level.

Dean’s grin widened. “You know what I want, Sammy.”

“Not gonna happen.” Sam shook his head.

“Oh, come on, little brother. Only two ways out of this: either you take care of me like you should have when this first started, or you come with me. Hunting. It’ll be just like old times.”

“No.” Sam’s voice was hoarse.

“One of these nights, you’re gonna get careless.” Dean shifted his weight minutely. Sam might not be ready to shoot him through Bobby, but the odds here weren’t overwhelmingly in Dean’s favor anymore. Time for a strategic retreat.

Sam’s eyes were softening. “I’m going to save you, Dean. I swear to God.”

Dean wanted to roll his eyes at the declaration, but he settled for sneering. Didn’t do to take his eyes off the man with the pointy crossbow. “It’s a little late for that,” he accused, and then, without warning, thrust Bobby forward.

Sam, his face a picture of surprised alarm, brought the crossbow down just in time to avoid skewering the man. Dean didn’t wait to see more, instead turning and dashing out the backdoor into the night. He could hear the two men cursing as they untangled themselves. Heard the door bang open again moments later, but he was already merged with the shadows of the salvage yard and his pursuers couldn’t see in the dark.

He probably could have circled around and picked them off while they hunted for him, but he wasn’t ready yet. Besides, Sam had surprised him before, and Dean wasn’t going to put himself in any situation where he might have to kill his brother. Not permanently, anyway.

Sam would slip up sooner or later, and when he did, Dean would have his brother back. Have his fucking car back.

And then the world was going to bleed.


End file.
